The Insane Accounts
by ShadowedSoulSpirit
Summary: This is a collection of one-shots about certain countries going insane. This will be marked incomplete until I am finished with a extensive list of ideas. Rated T for future insanity.
1. Germany: Life With A Not So Real Person

**The Insane Accounts**

**A Hetalia story.**

**IMPORTANT**

**So hiii guys! I'm going to explain this once. Each chapter is a stand alone story. None of them have reference to the other. Each chapter will tell a different story, and will be clearly marked on who it is and so on and so forth. Enjoy!**

**Germany: Life With A Not So Real Person**

I wake up at six o'clock, putting my alarm clock to shame by rising earlier than it is supposed to alert me. I dress myself accordingly in my snug military attire, making sure all the metals are polished precisely. There is no particular reason behind my outfit. As Italy puts it, I dress to impress. Who I'm impressing is lost on me.

Once the clothes are settled in their appropriate position, I make my bed without the slightest imperfection. I untuck a Luger from underneath my pillow, placing the gun within a hidden holster on my person. Old habits die hard. I never leave home without a weapon. I even attend World Conferences with it. I never feel safe unless I know it's within reach. I'm always on edge. World War 2 made me that way.

I don't bother with breakfast. I have to get to work fairly early. Japan and Italy are coming over, strictly for business, and I'm always an hour early.

"Hey West! Where you goin'?" My brother's form greets me in the living room. He looks no different than he did during the war, with that huge grin plastered on his face and his red eyes gleaming. I wonder vaguely why he is up so early.

"Meeting." I reply curtly, going to the door.

"Can I come to? It's not a party without the awesome me!"

"Nein. It's not meant to be a party." He frowns.

"You need your awesome big brother there." Prussia states, that indefinite smirk no longer present. He is serious. It's moments like this that I hate to disobey his orders or his wishes.

"You can come. Only if you stay quiet."

"Awesome!" He jumps up from the couch, the grin rematerializing.

We walked to the place of choice for our meeting, because it is only a mile away and Prussia had failed to fill up the car with gas. We had a brotherly chatter going on, confusing some people as we walked by. It's like they never seen two brothers talking before. A few times, he even managed to make me laugh. It's rare for me to do so. Usually only him and Italy can make me crack a smile. Prussia is normally the only person who makes me laugh. Most of the time, I laugh because of his laugh. It always amuses me, even as a kid. The 'Kesesesese!' never got old.

"Is this the place West?" He motions to a little coffee shop that I had abruptly stopped in front of.

"Ja."

"Don't you think you're gonna scare everyone away? You look like you're gonna shoot everyone! Kesesese!" I smile, just a little.

"I think they can grow accustomed. Come on."

I order two drinks, much to the cashier's confusion. She keeps insisting that two coffees would be too much for me because they are very powerful. I explain several times that one of them was for my brother, and even point to the seat he was occupying. She never understood though. I brought the coffee over to Prussia. He takes one sip, and frowns.

"Awww come on West you know I like cappuccinos better than coffee!"

"Sorry. Slipped my mind." I sip my coffee as he pouts.

Italy and Japan join right on time. Italy takes it upon himself to crowd into my side of the booth, while Japan neatly sits by my brother. Folding his hands in his lap, the Japanese man proceeds to scoot to the middle, crushing my brother in the process.

"Westttttt help!" Prussia speaks, trying not to shove him away.

"Be mindful of Prussia, Japan." I warn him.

Japan's eyebrows knit together in confusion, before scooting away.

"Ahhh that's better."

"What is doitsu talking about?" Italy cocks his head, gazing up at me.

"I was only pointing out that Japan was squishing Prussia." I take another sip of coffee.

My allies' eyes meet at once, like the other one held the answers. Honestly I don't know what has gotten into everyone. They are acting as though as I have lost my mind.

The meeting went well. It turned out to be more of a reunion instead of a diplomatic discussion. Around one o'clock we disband, waving each other goodbye and repeat promises that we will catch up again later. Italy looks almost concerned when I turn to reprimand my brother for an inappropriate comment. The walk home is the same as it was before. We just spoke to one another, recollecting fond memories of past wars and fallen foes. Usually Prussia is with his friends, or off fighting so kind of fool's battle. It is nice every once in a while to be able to speak like this. We get to do it more often now, since warfare has been a thing of the past for several years now.

Once we arrive home, he starts a drinking contest. By supper, he is too drunken out of his mind to eat, so I carry him to his room like a dutiful brother and let him sleep off the soon to be hangover. I eat supper in silence, and retire to bed. Again, I find myself beating my alarm clock. I have a habit of doing that, and I have yet to break it. Prussia wasn't up yet. But that's not what bothered me. Someone was knocking on the door.

I went to go answer it.

I am shocked. Standing before me was not only Japan and Italy, but the entirety of the Allies, plus Spain and Romano. It is odd for all of to be seen together.

"Do you need something?" I hesitantly speak, searching for the answer on each of their faces.

"Doitsu. We need to talk to you." Italy sounded... so serious. It is completely unlike him.

I open up my home to the fellow countries, allowing them free range of my living room. They all came there for a single purpose that much was evident. It's almost like they were there… for emotional support. Like that one day after World War 2… were they had forced fed me lies about a fallen country.

Italy wraps his soft hands around mine, bringing me to sit beside him on the couch, allowing everyone else to watch.

"You need to stop." He speaks softly, almost shakingly.

"Stop what?" I'm clueless.

"You need to stop pretending he's here mi amigo." Spain steps in, pain written on his face.

"I agree mon ami. You are hurting yourself by doing it." France adds, deepening my confusion.

"Pretending whose here?"

"Prussia." Japan says helpfully, although I'm still not making any sense of it.

"I'm not pretending he's here. He's in his bedroom, drunk out of his mind."

"Dude... He didn't survive World War 2."

"What do you mean?"

"He died. Gilbert Beilschmidt has been dead this entire time."

**-Soul Spirit-**


	2. Russia: Deep and Dark and Dangerous

**The Insane Accounts**

**A Hetalia Story.**

**Russia: Deep and Dark and Dangerous**

It's dark. It's deep and dark and dangerous. A slate of ebony settles across my vision, unblemished by any forms of light. It is getting hot in the darkness, making the atmosphere almost stifling in my jacket and scarf. But I dare not move, to reveal myself for her to find. Many times I have been placed in this position. Many times I have experienced the same things. I know how it'll end because it always ends the same. I breathe quickly, hyperventilating at the very idea of her seeking me out.

She always does. She always comes for me.

My stomach lurches, interrupting my attempts at breathing. I nearly cough, but I catch myself just in time. I don't want her to find me. I don't want her to chant that phrase repeatedly as she claws her way to my hiding spot. The darkness is beginning to pester me, as though as it was mocking me. I am reduced to cowering away in a closet, praying to any God that existed to please spare me today. I don't know how much longer I can continue to flee my little sister. Oh God. What if she catches me today?

_Calm down. What has big sister always told you to do?._ Think positive.

I shut my eyes tightly, but that does not change the medium on which I am forced to look at. I try to conjure up images of sunny fields with beautiful sunflowers, their yellows petals folded to absorb the sun. I attempt to picture myself in that place, amongst the pretty floors and the gently sun rays. It is a happy place, not tainted by the many attempts of marriage by my sister. But the very thought of her makes the happy place sink into depression. The sun becomes clouded with angry ash stained blobs. The sunflowers wilt and die along with the grass, making the area in a state of decay. Winters harshness is approaching in full blast, chilling me to the very bone.

_She_ is standing there, her hair whipping in the wind in symphony with her dress and ribbons. Her face is twisted into a smirk, a God awful smirk that scares every bit of courage from me.

I open my eyes quickly, trying to escape the image but it's like it follows me into the real world. There is a sudden scrap against the door, making me squeak. I just gave myself away, because what happens next chills me more than winter.

"Big brotherrrrrrr.." Her voice mummers, her nails scrapping at the door.

_No no no no no no no! No no no no no! Go away! No!_

The door knob twists harshly in the darkness, groaning with the strength she is applying on it. I can't take this. Not anymore. I don't want to hide any longer from her in the darkness. This is just one times to many. I'm making myself go insane with a desire to escape indefinately. I want an untainted field of beauty. I fumble around in the darkness, making her attempts to get in rise in fever. She wants me. I don't want her. I finally find the object despite the obsidian blinding me. I know what I am holding and without seeing it I know exactly how to use it.

Before I can hear the infamous chant begin, I press the gun to my head and pull the trigger.

Maybe now I can finally escape the darkness of insanity in which she has encased me in.

Belarus finally forces the door to open, even after the gun shot, not wanting her big brother to get away from her. He is going to marry her one way, or another. She kneels beside his body, not shedding a single emotion aside from the determination she had in mind. She collects the gun from him, smirking.

"I'm going to follow you big brother. We will be together forever and ever. Marry me…" She also puts the gun to her head, pulling the trigger without a moment's hesitation.

Russia's heaven just became hell.

It was made deep and dark and dangerous.

**-Soul Spirit-**


	3. England: I Have Not Gone Mad

**The Insane Accounts**

**A Hetalia story.**

**England: I Have Not Gone Mad**

They think I have gone crazy. They have assumed I have gone mad. But what do they know? They can't peek inside my mind and comprehend what takes place there. I've purposely made myself complicated and hard to understand. That does not mean in the slightest that I have gone mad. I am a country; insanity isn't a part of that. I am still as sane as anyone else. However, they do not see that. They counted me as a threat to the people around me. They took precautions for my so called insanity. First was a doctor. I meet with him each and every week until the day until I was proclaimed to be mentally insane. The second was a pair of guards who waited to drag me away and lock me up. They claimed they were being considerate for my wellbeing, but that obviously was the last thing on their mind. I insist I have not gone mad but they see it in a different light.

I have not gone mad.

I am a gentleman at heart and that has not changed. I am not crazy in the slightest. I talk to my friends on a regular bases and that has never seemed to bother them before. Why am I suddenly declared insane?

I struggle against the binding, aching for my arms to be free. They have been strapped tightly across my chest for exactly 56 days. The straight jacket itches and rubs my skin raw, making me fidget every so few seconds. The room is cold, constructed out of a material that will 'prevent harm to myself'. I don't have the luxury of any type of furniture. After all they assume I have gone mad. Lately I have had to speak to myself in order to hear a human voice. For some reason, Uni and Flying Mint bunny have seemed to abandon me. But not him. He visits every single day without fail. He believes me when I say I'm not crazy. He tells me he wishes he could get me out but he wasn't strong enough. He would comfort me, adjusting the straight jacket when it began to get stifling.

He repeats that I have not gone mad.

If he hadn't arrived, I would have gone insane by the mere idea of this place. The first couple of weeks were extremely hard for me. I would pound my head against the wall, forcing nurses to enter my room and sedate me on a regular basis. After the fourth time is when he appeared, shaking me awake from my medical induced slumber. It was a nice change of pace and it renewed my incentive to prove to them I have not gone insane.

Speaking of him, he has yet to show up. I have been waiting anxiously for him, like I do every day. I worry that he will not show. But before long, the door opens, revealing his tiny figure against the blinding backdrop. He scurries in, shutting the door behind him like a good little boy before trotting over to me. He is so adorable in his white fluffy dress and red ribbon. His wide blue eyes were considerate and kind, making him look even cuter than before.

"Hello America." I croak.

I've been depriving myself of the little food and water I am provided. I don't want to give them the satisfaction of believing I have lost my will. I plan on proving to them that I am _not_ insane in any way I can. I will get out. I am the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, not some lowlife meant to be locked away like scum. I have not gone mad.

"Hi Engwand." He smiles childishly, hurrying to climb onto my lap. That is his favorite place and it prevents him from having to sit on the chilling floor.

"I haven't gone mad...right?" I always have to ask. I feel better when it comes from his sweet mouth.

"Nope!" Was his simple response.

I'm so glad he still visits me. I'm glad the Revolution was nothing but a bad nightmare. He lightens the depressing mood I have been placed in. He makes me laugh and smile. He tells me he loves me and I love him back. I tell him story and sing him songs like I used to before I was locked up under false pretenses. I'm happy they don't keep him from me. Not once have I questioned his daily visits. I just revel in the fact that my haunting nightmare was indeed a simple dream and my precious little brother did not leave me. He still loves me unconditionally, even under these circumstances.

How can they believe I have gone mad?

Two doctors observe as the patient chats away with nothing but air.

"What is his problem?" The first doctor, a new intern, questions his older counterpart.

"He has gone mad." The older responds simply, writing away on his clipboard, "Claims he isn't though. But believe me. He is the most psychotic patient we have."

**-Soul Spirit-**


	4. Italy: One Country in a Conference of Ma

**The Insane Accounts**

**A Hetalia story.**

**Italy: One Country in a Conference of Many**

The conference room is eerily quiet, aside from the steady drip of Heaven's tears that came from outside. It pounds on the window like distant gun fire in a war, reminding the people present in the room of the legitimate battle being waged within the world. The lights have long since flickered off, which means the only source of light is the feeble rays trying to bleed through the clouds. Most of the room however is still shrouded in darkness. All the chairs are pushed away from the table, making for easy access to its surface. The reason behind this is quite obvious, although not to one particular country.

One country in a conference of many is completely oblivious to the reality in front of them.

There is a bit of scuffling in the darkness before a boy plops down in the nearest chair, a sparkle in his eyes as he imagines different forms of pasta he would soon indulge on. His wayward curl bounces lightly at his bubbly movements, showing the boy's rather playful nature.

"Ve~~" His daydream continues without interruption, "Pastaaa..."

The boy disappears into the darkened cloak of the room. Another guy sits in the chair next to the previously occupied, clad in a green military hat.

"Italy! Pay attention!" He snaps, before receding into the ebony screen.

The first boy, Italy, returns, glancing at the empty seat next to him.

"Ah, I'm sorry Germany!" He replies earnestly.

Germany only reappears to shake his head. Before the silence of human speech became evident, a boy appears on the opposite side of the room. This person had a set of glasses and a bomber jacket.

"Dudes! We need to totally do something to get rid of this bored atmosphere!" When he is finished, he is gone the instant he came.

"And what do you suggest we do?" This man doesn't appear. His voice could be heard within the darkness, thick with a British accent

"Well mon ami I have some games in mind~" A heavy French accent implies.

"Buzz off frog face."

This continues throughout the duration of the meeting, with several countries making appearances while others battle in the darkness. It is about time to wrap up the meeting when the rain ceases. The final country makes his appearance. It is Germany, his hat obscured ever so slightly, revealing a wayward curl that bounces in time with his movements.

A single person exits the conference room that day, bounding down the hallways chanting pasta. His curl protrudes from the side of his head, echoing each step he took.

He is a single a country in a conference of many.

Everyone else had died in the distant war that Italy tries so desperately to ignore.

**This is a bit late, I apologize. I started high school last week and have been too depressed to write. I give credit to my bestie friend who I really try to call Liet, although it comes out as her nickname Deidara. I came up with the idea while she suggested it be Italy. So thanks Deidara, ur, I mean Liet!**

**-Soul Spirit-**


	5. Poland: I Am Perfectly Insane

**The Insane Accounts**

**A Hetalia story.**

**Poland: I Am Perfectly Insane**

The room is dark, the colors muted by the lack of proper light. Even the heavy curtains shield the window but it is not quite pitch black. There is enough of the little rays penetrating through the fabric in order to make out the bulky forms of objects. The details however, remain obscured. Peering into this near darkness, one can see a person. They can only assume the gender, because in this setting it is next to impossible trying to define their sexuality. The lean frame and lack of feminine curves could lead one to believe that it is indeed male. But the hair and the gracefulness in which they hold themselves also leans to female.

The darkness molds against them, defining the shrunken limps that protrude from their body. It looks as though as only the bones are present, for their arm are so thin, thin enough to match their frame equally. Like the strokes of a paintbrush, the blackness highlights a very soft, round face with a button nose and long eyelashes. Their hair is absolutely symmetrical and perfectly straight, if it wasn't for the fact that they were constantly running a brush through the left side, and only the left side. Peculiarly enough, their hand continued the robotic motion of up and down without readjusting their position or grip.

If one listens closely enough, they could make out what the soft lips present on their face is saying.

"I am perfect. I am pretty. I am beautiful. I am lovely. I am perfect. I am pretty. I am beautiful. I am lovely." Apparently, whoever it is, enjoys repetition. Whether it be the same line, the same action, the same song, or the same routine, they unfailingly would repeat it.

"I am perfect."

They sit the brush down softly, picking up foundation.

"I am pretty."

They cake the makeup on, unable to see the results in the dimly lit mirror.

"I am beautiful."

Next comes the lipstick, smothered upon their lips to the point that it completely covers their mouth and surrounding areas. If one squints hard enough, they could distinctly see the white foundation and cherry red lipstick.

"I am lovely."

They practically drown themself in perfume, spraying it so wildly that one could get high off of such a fragrance. Maybe that's what happened to them. All the beauty products got to their head, shriveling up their brain and turned them into an insane nut job.

"I am perfect."

They grab a straightener, clasping a clump of hair in-between the two heated metal slabs. They simply hold it there, even when it begins to burn the already straightened hair. The scent of burning flesh and hair overpowers the perfume, but the person makes no attempt to correct their mistake. Instead, they simply repeat the process, this time to the other side.

"I am pretty."

Unplugging the straightener, they now decide to try a curler. Wrapping their hair around the rod is difficult for them. They couldn't quite get it all twirled around. To remedy that, the person simply grasps the rod and holds the frayed hairs to the heat. More burning flesh is emitted into the room. If anyone else had occupied the house, they may have been able to smell it, and in turn save this insane person.

"I am beautiful."

The hair curler is sat down, but it doesn't take long for it to burst into flames. The user had neglected to unplug it after the use. The flames jump across any surface, igniting the completely flammable room in seconds. Still the shriveled up husk of the person does not move, even as the danger looms so near.

"I am lovely."

Another spark provides the perfect amount of light in order to fully see the person in front of the cracked mirror.

"I am perfect."

Face white as a ghost and plump mouth smeared with a substance relatable to blood, Poland sits perfectly still, even after the flames engulf whatever is left behind by his insanity. After all, he is perfect. So perfect in fact that he dies in a fire by his own hand, a twisted smile still of his face and his little phrase continuing to go on and on.

He was perfectly insane.

**I wrote a poem similar to this in Abstracting the World You Know. You should check it out!**

**-Soul Spirit-**


	6. Lithuania: Addict of Insanity

**The Insane Accounts**

**A Hetalia story.**

**Lithuania: The Addict of Insanity**

Lithuania never could imagine that insanity was capable of hanging in the air like tangible shadows. He imagined it tangling up into beast, lurking in the deepest darkest crevasse of his mind. It wouldn't come out unless Russia was there. That's when the madness was the worst. Lithuania could lose himself in it, when the frequency of him indulging in it began to pick up speed. Russia's visits stressed him out. That stress led to frustration, which went hand in hand with depression, and lastly the emotion morphed into the sickly state of insanity. Despite this, Lithuania found it quite pleasurable. He can lose himself in it, and momentarily escape the wrath of the Russian man.

But soon, the experience wasn't enough. Lithuania could not lose himself like he used to. It was like a drug. He was growing immune to it. And like any addict, he wanted to up the dose. How would that be possible though? Deepen the depression. Heighten the sadness and the pain, triple the agony of living. So, under the impulsive need for this slip into a fake reality, Lithuania repeatedly invited Russia over, for him to have his way with the poor Baltic. Lithuania had hardly any control over his mind anymore. All there was, was a desire. A carnal hunger for something he couldn't have.

It's not like this developed over night. This is the result of many years trapped in an abusive house, where a smile could mean pain and a frown could mean salvation. The backwards of it all threw him off. It tore down his logic and left this animal in its wake. But oh, Russia _loved_ this animal. He enjoyed playing with the doll like remains of his subordinate. He would continue to push and push him, yet nothing different would happen. Lithuania would just come back begging for more. _It was fantastic._

Like any drug however, there happened to be lasting consequences. The more one delves in an unnecessary pleasure, the likelihood of them receiving said consequences tends to rise. The rush wasn't like it was anymore. Lithuania was growing board. There was no more excitement when he tipped into his delightful insanity. Playing as a rag doll had lost its motives.

He needed more.

And that's where the damage comes into play. His mind was so deceived, scarred and broken that the human's common sense was nowhere to be found. All there was, was insanity, and how to achieve it. This could lead Lithuania into doing so many different reckless things that no one had any idea he was capable of.

Sometimes, an addict can take a drug usage too far, and do the stupidest of the stupidest things in order to relive that high. That's where all of this has lead our poor little Baltic. It took him right to the doorstep of his brothers' house, a loaded gun his hand. There was no intention behind it. The only purpose behind him arriving at this conclusion was maybe, just maybe, doing this can reignite the excitement insanity had to offer. So without a moment's hesitation, the rather insane boy kicked the door in.

Estonia jumped in fright, having been harmless sitting on the couch. Lithuania hardly spared the boy a glance. He lifted the pistol, just like he'd seen Russia do many times, and in cold blood, pulled back the trigger. Laces of blood ribbon from his brother's head, slumping over his form. Dead. Laughter escaped his lips. He had achieved just what he wanted. Pleasure. And at the expense of his younger brother. Who cares though right? He wasn't quite done though. The addict of insanity had a few more bullets to spare, and one more sibling. Let's take full advantage of this new fun, shall we?

Lithuania marched to his youngest brother's room, knowing the little boy would be cowering from the gun shots. Turns out, he was right on the money. Latvia was whimpering in the corner, but not when he saw Lithuania. For a brief moment he thought he was saved. Then he saw the gun.

Again, Lithuania pulled the trigger. The bullet lodged itself right between those big blue eyes of his, wide from shock and fear. More laughter spills from his lips. Oh the insanity feels so good right now, it was almost heavenly. He had reached the pure ecstasy. But like any good high, he has to come down from it. That's when reason and logic settle back into his mind, driving out the insanity for him to process the extent of his damage long enough. One brother dead laid at his feet, the other turning the couch red. The smoking gun was literally in his hands, leading him to one logical conclusion.

A conclusion that made the addict of insanity put the gun to his head and pull the trigger.

**Man I really got into this one when I was typing it. I hope you like it.**

**-Soul Spirit-**


	7. France: Insanity Is Such A Great Illusio

**The Insane Accounts**

**A Hetalia Story.**

**France: Insanity Is Such A Great Illusionist**

Insanity can come in many different forms. It can encompass your world and abduct a human face, changing everything you see about that person. The delirious intention brought on by insanity is man's greatest illusion. One could fall for it harder than anything else the Earth has to offer. This in itself makes insanity the greatest magician as well. It is a schemer, plotting to reap away your sanity and leave behind an orchard of dementia, ripe for the picking. Even the brightest of people could fall victim to such a simple emotion. It can be triggered by an event or a dream, something that slowly takes shape into that monster lurking in the corner of the room, awaiting the perfect moment to pounce. A person could fall for the easiest illusions and incidentally drown themselves in the lies provided by it. That is what makes insanity such a cruel illusionist. Its incapability of mercy provides that once you fall prey to its wrath, you are incapable of getting out of it until you perform some act you will soon regret. Many people succumb to it when they fear the death or separation of a loved one so much that their mind begins to act against them, welcoming insanity in without a second thought.

Under this category has fallen the notorious country of love, France.

However, at this point in time, he is known only as Francis Bonnefoy. Human to all his people, country to only a few, Francis is traveling through some tough times in history. He isn't detoured though. Standing right beside him is a fair maiden whom he has so deeply fallen in love with. Her name is Joan of Arc, a saint during the time of the Hundred Years' War. She is so useful, even as a woman, with a strong will and heart that instantly won Francis over. She understands how much the flirtatious Frenchman loves her, and she returns it tenfold. But to the eyes of someone insane, love could appear to be something else entirely. This didn't start to affect France until May 29, 1431, when he is plagued with a sudden nightmare that mirrors the fear he had harbored.

Unbeknownst to France, he is thrashing about in the bed with a vigor only a man suffering from a nightmare could possess. In this nightmarish dream all he can see is fire. Smoke fills the air along with the scent of burnt flesh. Screams obliterate the roar of the fire, it's crimsons and golds and oranges reaching out to lick Francis's face. He recoils in fear and shock, spinning around in order to find an escape. There is none. All that coexisted with the country is the burning embers, the screams, and the horrid stench of death. His heart is beating so hard in his chest, possessing his earthly body to continue to scramble for ground he cannot reach in his dream. It is all too real, too pure, and too worldly. The last thing he can possibly think about is it being a dream. He is solely focused on escaping the fires wrath that he doesn't even consider anything, and as a result, allows the first bit of insanity to trickle in.

"Joan!" He shouts against the fever of the people, sweeping his gaze around in an attempt to catch a glimpse of her unmistakable hair.

The smoke stings his throat, making him cough hard against the sore developing. It feels like his eyes are on fire, just like his skin, making the pain ignite so deep in Francis that he groans momentarily from it. The fire seems to close in on him, stalking its prey until the very last possible moment.

"Joan! Joan where are you?!" The fire has singed his hair now, making him recoil quickly.

He feels like retching from the symphony of dying cries falling on his ears. His heart is being squeezed so tight with the hand of dread, that it is hard to collect any of the tainted air at all. His people are dying by the hundreds he could tell. Joan could be among them. She could be dead. He had to do _something._ Prepping himself, he bulldozes his way through the fire wall, catching the fabric of his clothes aflame. He is quick to drop and smother the fire away once the ground is clear.

By this point, Francis is living reality. The dream is no longer a dream. The illusionist of insanity has begun its act. Now, France is no longer able to tell the difference between the nightmare and reality. This is the burden a country bears. When they grow too attached, they fear loss, and loss only leads to the bonds of delirium. Francis fears Joan dying—or better yet leaving him—to the point that his mind is creating such an event in a way that seems unmistakably real.

Breathing hard against the smoke, he gets to his feet, woozy from such a gigantic intake of smoke. The air begins to leave him, one breath after the next as he gags on the soot collecting in his throat. He manages to spit it out, leaving his throat incredibly sore. Inspecting the area again, Francis's eyes widen at what he sees. There is a girl, tied to a stake, thrashing widely at the source of the fire. Above the flames he can see the untouched gold color in her hair.

It is Joan.

Her flesh is not aflame like it should be. She is creating the fire, making it expand into the surrounding houses to burn down the town. Her mouth is twisted into a devilish smirk, one only a trained witch could do. Suddenly, there is no fire, no people screaming, not to France at least. He can almost hear his heart shatter, the bile in his stomach rolling at the fact that _Joan is a witch and she is killing his people._

"Joan?! How could you do this?!" Francis cries, gaining the attention of her cold eyes, "How could you kill my people?!"

Her head cocks to the side, her smile growing, "You mistook my charm for love. I was only trying to control you. Now look at what has happened."

France's eyes rake across the damage, building up a steadily increasing dose of insanity. It is numbing his mind, making him immune to what he is doing. He could no longer hear the screams of his people. They did not betray him so viciously. He makes his way over to the witch, his body no longer succumbing to the fire. He can't believe how easily he has been fooled. Was he foolish to have fallen in love in the first place? Joan gives him a strange look, a mixture of unease and fear as he stands before her. France returns her creepy smile, with one of his own, as he grips her neck tightly in his hands.

"I love you so much Joan. I was afraid I would lose you, but it appears like I already have. You are not the Joan I love. Not anymore." His smile widens at the sudden change in her eyes.

She fears the monster she sees looming over her, intent on killing her. In Francis's hands, her neck goes snaps, followed shortly by his laughter. He laughs because he felt like an idiot, because laughing makes the pain go away. His laugh increases in volume when he thinks about all the times they exchanged 'I love you's and how they turned out to be lies. He laughs at how his incompetence made him fall head over heels with a witch who ends up betraying him in the worst way possible. He laughs because despite his desires not to lose her, he did.

In his sleep, Francis Bonnefoy has grabbed his lover beside him by her neck, and nearly strangles her in the night. She fights back, leaving bruises on the country in her attempt to get free of his nightmarish actions. Governmental figures saw the 'abuse' their country has suffered the next day, and hands Joan over to the British for execution.

It is okay though. To France, she is a witch. Her flames would terrorize England now.

It is the end of the show. The illusionist packs up its things and leaves without a trace.

Insanity is such a great illusionist.

**I can see this happening. Really vividly actually. How about you?**

**-Soul Spirit-**


End file.
